


Down a Hole Without a Shovel

by Mintoki



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Buried Alive, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Tim Drake Whump, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim Drake-centric, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24845518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mintoki/pseuds/Mintoki
Summary: Tim's not claustrophobic, but getting himself nabbed and subsequently locked in a box still isn't necessarily his idea of a fun time. It's fine though, nothing he hasn't dealt with at least ten times before. Criminals are usually pretty dumb so it's always been easy for Robin to give them the slip. At first, he doesn't see any reason to believe this time will be any different. He'll get out and get back to the Batcave before anyone even notices he's missing.But then he sees the dirt trickle in and it's all downhill from there.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 18
Kudos: 344





	Down a Hole Without a Shovel

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! It's been a while since I've written anything not to mention actually finished something. In fact, the only reason this got completed now is because my Internet went out yesterday, leaving me to only watch cable television and work on some of my WIP one shots lol 
> 
> I started this originally back in December after I watched the movie "Buried" with Ryan Reynolds. Of course my brain went "Okay but what if Tim was buried alive" and I immediately just started word vomiting onto a Google doc. This ended up being longer than I expected (4k instead of like 1k or 2k) but the more I wrote the more I felt I had to expand on things. Even now, I feel like I could have written more at some points, but I'm finally at a place where I'm satisfied enough with this to post this. 
> 
> There's not a ton of plot to this, but I hope you still enjoy it!

Tim comes to with a jolt. He really wishes he hadn’t, but apparently his bat training isn’t enough to crush that instinct completely. His head makes it less than a foot before it slams into solid wood, forcing it back down on the floor. He’s not lucid enough to even try to suppress the groan that comes from the back of his throat. Somehow the noise still comes out muffled anyways.

Tim might not know exactly what’s going on, but he knows for a fact that’s not normal.

It only takes a few more seconds for him to register the cloth digging into the sides of his mouth. He’s been gagged. Fantastic. He pokes his tongue at the gag in an attempt to push it out of his mouth completely. Unfortunately, whoever decided he needed to be silenced must have earned their knot tying merit badge way back in the day because he’s not getting anywhere. The more he prods at the cloth, the more frustrated he becomes with its lack of movement. After about a minute of the fruitless endeavor, his tongue is starting to ache just a bit and Tim decides its probably best to cut his losses and focus on other ventures.

Like his hands for example.

The limbs in question are currently being crushed by his body weight as they’re restrained behind his back. Tim gives a few experimental tugs at his binds but the ropes are just as secure as his gag.

 _The criminal boy scout strikes again._ Tim can’t help the sardonic thought from flitting through his mind before returning his attention to the task at hand. No pun intended, of course.

First order of business, get his hands free and if that’s not a possibility, then at least get them out from behind his back. Though judging by how little space he has between him and the ceiling, the latter without the former will probably be a near impossible feat to pull off. His eyes haven’t yet adjusted to the darkness around him, but based off how he smacked his forehead earlier Tim doesn’t think it’s a stretch to conclude that he’s been stuffed in a box of some sort.

This isn’t necessarily Tim’s first rodeo. He’s been donning the domino for just a little over two years at this point during which more than a few people have attempted to nab him. More often than not, the crook would shove him in their car’s trunk or something, overlooking the fact that no matter how well they think they tied him up, he could easily kick out their tail light and usually find a way to pry open the trunk all by himself.

He’s definitely not in a trunk this time through. For one thing, he doesn’t feel like he’s moving at all. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense for criminals to lock him in the back of car except for the sake of transportation. Another clue that tips him off to the difference in confinement is the “floor” he’s lying on. It’s smooth and definitely not the rough carpet that furnishes most vehicles. He’s slightly thankful for that small fact as it means the odds of him getting rug burn this evening are practically nil.

God, is it even still evening? With his confined state it’s impossible for him to tell just how much time has passed since he was knocked out. Actually, now that he thinks about it, just how _did_ he end up here? He searches his memory for any possible explanation and comes up wanting. His last memory consists of him alone in an alley tying up a would-be-robber and then a voice behind him telling him… something. It’s something important, but he can’t for the life of him remember it. In fact, the more he grasps for the information, the more his head feels fit to remind him of its condition. A dull pain spreads throughout his head while a sharp, concentrated throbbing at the back of his skull reveals the cause.

 _Great, whoever threw me in here probably gave me a concussion. And just in time for Mr. Nguyen’s bio quiz on Friday, too. Just what I needed._ Tim lets out another muffled groan from a combination of pain and annoyance for what his future holds in store for him. This will be his third concussion this semester which is pretty par for the course by vigilante standards, but a bit less so normal the majority of the population. He can only use the story “I fell off my skateboard” so many times before someone gets suspicious, after all. He’ll either have to come up with a new excuse or have to try and hide it from his teachers. Unfortunately, option number two seems to be the more likely candidate which means no special test and homework accommodations for him. Yippee.

God, he really wishes his brain could stop going off on tangents right now. He needs to _focus._ He’s still wearing his gauntlets, which is an objectively dumb move on the criminal’s part but is a win for Tim. He keeps a small knife concealed in one of them for situations just like this. He wiggles himself onto his side in order to give himself enough room to retrieve the blade and begin sawing through his binds. 

It’s slow going, but eventually he makes it completely through a section of the rope. The cord falls away and Tim immediately rolls himself back into his original position while he makes a few experimental fists to ensure proper circulation has been restored. Once that’s done, he’s able to tear the gag from his mouth with little problem. With the cloth no longer in place, he can breathe easier, both literally and figuratively. 

“Now that we’ve solved that problem…” Tim mumbles to himself. His voice sounds fine, not even rough with sleep which is a good sign he feels. He probably hasn’t been out of it for too long then. 

Tim starts feeling around for more clues concerning his confinement. There’s no hinge on the box, which is annoying to say the least. If there were one, he could easily break it and open the presumably locked case that way. Though, he is a bit curious about how the box is staying closed if it’s not the standard latch like he was expecting. One hand runs across the ridge where the top meets the walls. There’s a slight gap in a section next to his head, allowing Tim to feel the nail imbedded there.

Well that explains it. The box has been nailed shut. Still, this shouldn’t pose too much of an issue. He’s already found a so called “seam” in here. With enough leverage he should be able to pop the lid clean off. Tim jams his fingers between the pieces of wood and pushes as hard as he can. He feels something give. It’s only a slight movement, but he still finds himself grinning nonetheless. He can _do_ this. He’s not going to be the boy hostage _this_ time thank you very much.

And then the dirt slips through his fingers and the crack he’s created.

He coughs instinctively as the molecules of dust enter his nose and then his mouth, the smile now gone from his face. Even in this daze, his brain continues thinking. Trapped in a wooden box with no light and soil seemingly surrounding him, what’s happened to him is becoming increasing clear. 

He’s been buried alive.

Tim rips his hand from the lid as if he’s been burned. A bit more dirt spills in, but soon enough the stream stops. The soil seems to have settled enough that it doesn’t pose the risk of slowly but surely flooding the box and drowning Tim as it fills the space. As an extra precaution, Tim jams his old cloth gag into the crack. At the action, even more dirt drops in, triggering another coughing fit which takes a few seconds to get under control.

There is no way. This cannot be real. It’s like something straight out of a low budget thriller flick that he and Ives would watch at a Friday night sleepover. It’s not something that’s actually supposed to _happen_ to people, least of all him. What in the world is he supposed to do?

As extensive as Bruce’s Bat training was, he never covered being _buried alive._ Villains often wouldn’t have the time nor the resources to capture Robin, transport him to a second location without anyone noticing, and then — even assuming the hole had already been dug — cover him with six feet of dirt before the boy wonder woke up. It’s such a statistically improbable scenario that the time was better spent learning and brushing up on different fighting techniques. Hell, Tim learned how to _logroll._ If Batman thought _that_ was a higher priority than getting buried alive, Tim was pretty sure he’d never have to deal with this nightmare scenario.

And yet here he is.

Tim brings his hand to the side of his head, trying to ignore just how badly it’s shaking. He taps his earpiece, hoping and praying that this will work.

“Oracle, this is Robin. Can you hear me? Over.” He waits for thirty seconds, counting them down in his head. The only sound that greets him, however, is that of his own shallow breathing.

_Babs never takes more than twenty seconds to respond. Even if she’s busy, she at least acknowledges that she got my message and that I just need to hold on._

“Oracle, do you read me? Urgent assistance needed. Over.”

Thirty more seconds. No response.

“Oracle. Report.”

_Relax, relax, relax. Everything’s going to be fine. Maybe her tech got damaged. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. Try someone else._

“Agent A, Robin requesting backup. Oracle’s not responding and I need help ASAP. Over”

This time he only makes it to twenty seconds before he jams his finger into his comm again.

“Agent A, I need confirmation on the situation. Over”

Fifteen seconds.

“Come in, Agent A!”

_Please please please come in._

“Nightwing, are you online?”

It’s a weeknight; Dick is back in Bludhaven. He hasn’t been on their feed all night. 

“Nightwing, I need you!”

_Dick, I need you. I need my big brother right now._

“Batman! Come in Batman!”

He’s practically yelling at this point, as if the volume of his voice somehow can change whether the comm link is working.

“Batman, it’s Robin!”

_It’s Robin. I’m here. I’m trapped._

“Batman! I need your help!”

His heart rate is increasing rapidly and his breathing right along with it.

“Batman!”

_Please save me._

“Bruce!”

Silence reigns as Tim sucks in a few breaths, trying not to break down sobbing right then and there. He pulls his hand away from his earpiece and rubs at the tears beginning to leak from his eyes. The comms don’t work. Whether it’s because his equipment was damaged in his altercation with whoever nabbed him or if he’s just out of range, he doesn’t know. 

_Okay calm down, Tim. You’re fine. Everything is going to be alright._ He takes a few more deep breaths, trying to steady himself. Each one comes faster than the last, however. No matter what he does he just can’t seem to get enough air in his lungs. _Jesus Christ, you need to relax! Oh my god, I’m just using more air trying to do this. How much air do I even have left? How many more minutes until I pass out and die?_

He’s too young to die. He’s only fifteen.

_So was Jason._

He can’t take this anymore. He has to get out _now._ His fist connects with the lid of the box. Some part of his mind — _the logical part_ _—_ realizes this is probably only making things worse. Speeding up the process. He’s using his energy and precious air banging away at wood that’s too strong to break from simple punches, no matter how well versed in combat he is. Additionally, even if he were to break the lid or open up his makeshift coffin somehow, he’d only serve to make his situation exponentially worse. Drowning in dirt and suffocating or asphyxiating over the course of an hour until there’s literally no oxygen left for him to breathe, which would be worse Tim wonders?

Still, maybe, just _maybe_ someone will be able to hear him up above. Someone will hear him pounding and his cries for help and he won’t have to die here. He won’t have to spend his last minutes alone with no contact to the outside. Alone with the possibility that Bruce and Dick and Babs and Alfred don’t even know he’s missing, that there’s something _wrong._

His punches begin to slow as his body gives into its instinct to grieve. His chest seizes with a sob and soon enough he’s bawling. He hasn’t cried this hard since he was a child, full of unrestrained sounds escaping from his throat and snot starting to join his tear tracks. He can’t even find it in him to be ashamed either; it’s not like there’s anyone around to see the embarrassing display.

He hates this. He’s just so _helpless._ Nothing he’s doing actually affects anything and so instead all he can do is stew in his horrible thoughts. How will everyone react? He can already imagine the tears in Dick and Babs’ eyes, the two of them clinging to each other in the Batcave. Alfred’s there too, misty-eyed but putting on a brave face and trying to stay strong for the others.

Tim’s not too sure what Bruce’s reaction would be. A selfish part of him hopes that the man will cry for him, will grieve long and hard for him, but he knows that’s a terrible thing to wish. That sort of thing just can’t happen. He’s not delusional enough to believe that Batman will have a huge breakdown like he did after Jason, but the idea of the vigilante hurting himself and others as he had before is still terrifying. Tim was the one who had said that Batman needs a Robin, that Robin keeps Batman grounded. Yet, here he is abandoning him. Some sidekick he is, huh.

_Dick will stick around this time. It’ll be alright._

He can feel his breaths coming more shallow now. Whether it’s from the panic attack or the air becoming thinner, he doesn’t know. What he does know, though, is that his eyelids are also becoming heavy. He wants to fight the impulse to just close them, but it’s already overriding his brain. Before he knows it, they’re closed and his brain is starting to slow down and just let him be. As he fades out one last thought drifts through.

_I’m so sorry, everyone._

* * *

“-pulse thready, but there. There are traces of blood in his hair, so head trauma is likely. No other obvious superficial wounds.”

Tim hears the voice before he fully comes to. The cadence is familiar and, despite its clipped tone, comforting. He can’t quite open his eyes yet, but he can feel a light pressure on the lower portion of his face that usually isn’t there. He sucks in a breath and can’t help but cough. It might sound weird, but the oxygen is almost too pure, at least it’s not as thin as what he had been breathing before.

“Robin.” The voice calls out, breaking from the status report it had been giving before. “Robin, can you hear me?”

The most Tim can give is a low groan. It seems to satisfy the person above him though, as he goes back to filling in a second individual on his status.

“He seems to have regained consciousness. I believe I’ll only have to continue administering oxygen for a few more minutes, but I want Agent A on standby back in the cave just in case. I’ll update you as needed, over.”

The person doesn’t respond and Tim belatedly realizes that the voice must be speaking through a comm. He also belatedly realizes that the voice can only really belong to one person.

_Bruce._

“Robin, can you open your eyes for me?” It’s takes an almost herculean effort, but eventually Tim is able to open his eyes. His prior suspicions are confirmed as the sight that greets him is Batman leaning over him, the moon behind him almost acting like a halo. Warehouses litter the scenery around them, with the closest ones being a few hundred yards away. It’s pretty standard for Gotham.

“...B. You’re here.” Tim practically sighs. I any other scenario, he’d probably regret just how needy he sounds, but he can’t help it. _He’s here._

It’s hard to tell with the mask in the way, but Tim can swear he sees Bruce’s face soften. “Of course I am. As soon as Oracle told me you hadn’t checked in for a while and you weren’t answering your comm, we immediately started searching for you. It took longer than we would have liked since we couldn’t pick up your signal and Oracle had some difficulty tracing through the backlog of activity and finding exactly when and where it cut out.” He pauses, as if considering whether he should say what he’s thinking. “Once I got here, figuring out where they… buried you wasn’t hard. It’s rather obvious when only one plot in a whole field has freshly disturbed dirt.”

Tim smiles and lets out a single laugh at the dry humor. It’s so undeniably Bruce and he loves it. The man smiles softly too and snorts, more emboldened to continue.

“It took longer than I would have liked to dig you out. I didn’t have the proper tool in my utility belt, so I had to call the Batmobile from where it was parked in the streets. I don’t know how long it took, but… you don’t know how relieved I am that you’re safe, Robin.”

Safe. He’s safe. Suddenly, everything comes crashing back into him at once. The fear, the tears, the undeniable belief that he was going to die without hearing from anyone ever again. His breath hitches and tears well up once again. Before he knows it, he’s breaking down just as he had before, though this time he has an audience. He can’t say he minds, considering what the alternative would mean.

“I-I was- And then there was dirt-” He blubbers. He brings his gloved hands up to his eyes and presses the heels of his palms into them through the domino. “And-and the comms weren’t- And I thought you- I didn’t think you would-”

“It’s alright. It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.” Tim tries his best to do as Bruce says; a good Robin doesn’t disobey a direct order from Batman, after all. Well, Dick would probably say otherwise but he’s not really here right now to correct him so he doesn’t think it matters. 

He inhales deeply and wipes at his face, trying to clean it as best as he can. Needless to say, it’s not very effective and just spreads his snot and tears over his cheeks. It does make him feel a little better, though. As Tim does this, Bruce gently eases Tim up from the ground and into a sitting position. Even after the movement, the steadying hand remains on Tim’s shoulder. 

Through shaky breaths Tim manages to get out, “I didn’t think I would get a chance to say goodbye. I wouldn’t get to tell you how thankful I am…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he knows the sentiment comes across.

He knows it in the way that something in Bruce’s expression just… breaks. That’s the best way that Tim can describe how the tension Bruce is holding in his shoulders falls away while the hand still holding onto Tim tightens. For a second, Tim’s sure he’s said too much. That he crossed some boundary that he shouldn’t have. Oh God, this is going to make things so awkward. Maybe he can blame it on the head wound? Yeah, he’s saying weird stuff because some criminal bashed him over the head with a tire iron. Maybe-

And then he’s being pulled into a hug. It’s a bit awkward and stiff, as most emotional things are with the man. Batman’s chest plate is rather hard and the oxygen mask on Tim’s face keeps him from completely closing the distance at first. For a few seconds, he’s almost too shocked to react. He just sits there. Then Tim turns his head to the side, presses his cheek against his mentor’s chest, and brings up his arms to loosely wrap around the man. He’s still feeling pretty weak, but he can do that much at least.

The embrace only lasts a few more seconds before Bruce pulls away. Tim takes that as his cue to let his own arms drop and stop leaning on the other man. Bruce still keeps contact as he cards his hand through Tim’s hair, which he figures must be looking more disheveled than it usually is. Bruce seems to mostly be focusing on smoothing his spiky bangs back down onto his forehead. It’s a fight against the crapton of product Tim likes to put in his hair before patrol, but for the most part it seems to be working. 

“You don’t have to say anything. I know.” Bruce finally says. 

“Of course you know. You’re Batman.” 

“I suppose you’re right about that.” Tim grins which quickly turns into a grimace as Bruce turns his attention from his bangs to the base of his head. The gauntleted hand immediately stops and pulls back, moving back to Tim’s shoulder. “And I also suppose that you have a concussion.”

Tim groans, though for the first time tonight it’s out of frustration rather than pain. “Don’t remind me. Why do the bad guys always have to go for the head? Do you think they’d stop if I wore a shirt that says ‘I have a quiz this week that I need to ace. Could you please just knock me out with chloroform before you try and murder me’?”

Bruce’s lip twitches before it pulls back into a disapproving frown. “Not funny, Robin.”

“Right…” Should have seen that coming. He can’t really use humor as a coping mechanism this time. Not when he just had a breakdown a few minutes ago. He reaches up and pulls the oxygen mask from his face, if only to occupy his hands. There’s a few moments where neither of them say anything. The uncharacteristic silence of the city washes over them before Bruce seems to steady himself.

“I know I haven’t said it but… I’m thankful for you too, Tim.” If he weren’t so caught up in the words and their underlying meaning, Tim would snark about the use of names while in costume. Instead, it takes all of his energy to keep his jaw from dropping open because _holy crap Bruce really just said that. He said that about me._ He can’t even begin to formulate a coherent response that doesn’t involve him ruining the moment by becoming a stuttering mess.

Before he can even get a chance to embarrass himself though, Bruce stands, effectively ending the moment. He extends a hand, an unspoken invitation to help Tim stand up. The teen allows himself to be helped to his feet and the duo begins making their way to the Batmobile.

As they walk, Tim casts one last glance over his shoulder, taking in the sight. A pile of dirt and a half intact box tell the story of the last few hours of Tim’s own person hell. He quickly shifts his gaze back in front of him and to his feet as an involuntary tremor wracks his body. Without saying anything nor breaking stride, Bruce wraps his arm around Tim as if shielding him from his thoughts and memories.

It says _I’m here for you and I’m not going anywhere_ and it’s just what Tim needs.


End file.
